Crisis in Asgard
by Scarlett Kingston
Summary: The man who he once called father was finally incapacitated, the traitor Heimdall languished in the belly of Asgard's prison, the Warriors Three and the dear Lady Sif had had all but disappeared, hiding for their treasonous act, and Thor was . . . gone. Asgard belonged to him now. Him, and him alone.


**A/N** - With the discontinuation of my story, Revenge, I thought it only appropriate to put out a simple one-shot of my, and many others', favorite tragic relationship. I do, however, feel the need to point out that my version of Sigyn isn't as sickeningly sweet and absurdly naive as her comic book counterpart.

Disclaimer: None needed. This is FanFiction.

Enjoy!

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**Crisis in Asgard**

Clouds boiled and fumed in the sky above the Golden City, a darkness shrouding the lands beneath. All was deathly silent. No bird sang, no animal made noise, not even the wind dared to breathe. The wounds of battle still etched themselves across the city. A few charred remains of homes and broken columns littered the walkways as scorch marks branded the once flawless walls of the palace. The fires had been stopped many, many days ago, but certain sections of the city still reeked of smoke and other burnt . . . _things_.

Inside the royal hall though, most was set to right. The columns stood erect, holding up the magnificent arched ceiling, the black marble floors polished to a luster. The grand Throne of Odin had been reset, and upon it was a figure garbed in green and black.

He sat upon the golden throne, head bowed and eyes shut, engrossed in thought. The man who he once called _father _was finally incapacitated, the traitor Heimdal languished in the belly of Asgard's prison, the Warriors Three and the _dear _Lady Sif had had all but disappeared, hiding for their treasonous act, and Thor was . . . gone, oblivious as always to the happenings of the city while he was away. The people still believed Odin would return to rule Asgard as their noble and righteous King. He couldn't help but laugh at their devotion to this . . . idea. Absurdity! The old man was never going to come back. Not now.

Loki raised his head when he heard the faint sound of footsteps tramping across the hall. Through the side doors walked a handful of the palace guards, likely changing posts. Most, if not all, of the palace attendants, guards and various servants, had been cowed into obedience and were no longer a threat; those who were, were labeled as traitors and inexplicably vanished from the palace grounds.

The royal sentry marched across the corridor to a set of doors opposite, not even soliciting a glance his direction for fear of his wrath. They were trailed, however, by a young maiden. One of the healers, if Loki remembered correctly. The woman, rather than following in the direction of the guards, turned instead to the right, making her way towards the healing chambers. She was too graceful and elegant to be just a mere servant in the house of Odin. She'd had to have had a higher upbringing to carry herself in that manner. He let his eyes drift over and after her. She did look . . . pleasing, he supposed. As she began to pass through the door's threshold he called to her.

"You, stop."

The young woman paused in her step, eyes widening. Whatever warmth her body had possessed quickly departed. The back of her neck chilled and she felt her soul drop into the pit of her stomach. As she waited in the arch of the door, the length of time seem to stretch for an eternity. She could only hope that he meant one of the guards. Finally, she heard him.

"Woman, come here."

Her eyes closed. _Come here_. Two words. Two words she had hoped to never hear from him, directly at least. Reluctantly, she turned to face him. Both locked eyes holding the stare for a time, but soon her gaze dropped to the floor. The king's were too severe and knowing. His eyes pierced her, and it was cold.

Loki saw her take a breath before she began to walk towards him. She had taken far too long to do so, but was right to fear him. She ascended the stairs, coming to stop at the bottom of the throne. His eyes skimmed across her once more. She wore the same blue-gray dress uniform that all the healers wore. Bronze cuffs encased her wrists not only to show her status among the healers, but also to keep the folds of the sleeves in place and clean. The bodice of her dress fit snugly against her chest and waist, free from ruffles or other such frills that would impede her daily tasks; the skirt barely grazing the ground. Her hair was woven to the side of her face into a loose braid, freeing her neck. The only ornament she wore wrapped itself around her forefinger.

"You requested my presence, my lord?"

But he never answered. The young healer stood under his scrutiny, unsure of what to do and growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. When she could take it no longer, she turned her face to the doors.

"I did not give you my permission to leave."

She glanced back. "Nor did you say I must stay." _Idiot, _ she cursed herself, biting her tongue.

An unrecognizable glint crept across his features as he arched a brow, but he did not smile. Thick tension filled the room that only dissipated when he flicked his wrist at her.

"Go, fetch me my cup." He settled back into the throne, waiting impatiently, thrumming his fingers on the armrest. But the woman did not move. It wasn't that she couldn't, that he had place some spell over her, but her conflicted feelings of serving an illegitimate . . . king rooted her to that polished tile of marble. So she just stood.

"Did you not hear me?" he berated, glowering down on her.

Stiffly, she pivoted, walking to the small table in the corner and filled a silver chalice with a yellow-white mead. The aroma of the pellucid drink was biting and sharp. She returned, walking up the second flight of stairs that led to the throne, and placed the vessel in his open hand. He raised it to his lips, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. He took a meager sip of the sweet liquid and then gave it back to the girl. Her cheeks colored. He had ordered her to bring him it, taken not even a mouthful, and for what? To flaunt his stolen sovereignty, his grip on the people of Asgard? She could feel the fires of Hel beginning to boil in her belly.

"_Now,_ you may leave," he nodded, giving a haughty half smirk. Rather than obeying, she took the cup and tipped it to the side, pouring the mead out at his feet.

Loki's smirk disappeared, his eyes smoldering with an intense green fire. He could feel his blood running through his veins, burning. Suddenly he jumped forward, seizing her hair by the crown of her head where it hurt most, and jerked her face close to his.

"Insolent witch," he spat. "Defying me will only ensure your demise."

She shoved him against the throne, his hand wrenched free from her golden hair. She twisted and rather ungracefully stumbled down the first few steps, but soon caught her balance.

"You are, if anything, only a steward—" she said over her shoulder as she continued down. "—and I am a healer. It is not my duty to be your cup-bearer."

"Duty?" he hissed. "Your duty is to serve me in whatever way I deem fit." He rose from the throne, towering menacingly above her. "I am your king! I am the one who wears the crown and wields the golden scepter." Loki took one step down, raising his head to look down on the woman. She stopped at the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned. She wouldn't look at him directly he noticed. Was it truly fear?

_Or obstinance?_ he thought. More likely the former then the later, but he couldn't disregard either.

"The King whom I serve is crowned with wisdom and humility, his scepter, integrity." Her voice was firm but an uneasiness painted her words. "None of which are qualities you possess."

Loki's eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips. She was different than the others, most assuredly. True, it was defiance all the same, but her's was to all appearances . . . indirect, yet somehow held more weight. It was no wonder Odin had chosen her as one of the personal servants. Loki walked down the stairs of the massive throne towards her, his prideful demeanor cascading thickly down before him like a murk.

"You dare speak so openly to your king, _peasant_?" he growled, a dangerous glint marked in his eyes.

"Odin is King and as he is not here to forbade my speech, I may plainly speak my mind, Sire."

_Such a sweet, innocent tone._ Most others would have found her poignancy veiled. _But how fearless is she truly? _ he wondered. He stood in front of her. Her entire form stiffened as he leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Such a sharp tongue for one so beautiful." Without touching, he let the back of his hand caress her face, his fingers flicking ever so lightly against her hair. Sigyn shivered causing Loki to smile all the more. _Not so when confronted outright then_. He set his forefinger lightly beneath her chin and then firmly grasped it, raising her face towards his so she couldn't escape.

"Tell me," he asked, feeling her jaw clench. "What are you called?"

After a moment's silence, he asked again. "What is thy name? My patience dwindles."

She blinked hard and swallowed. "Sigyn Freyudóttir," came her breathy response.

They were so close to one another now that Loki could almost feel her heart beating upon his chest. He closed what little space remained between them, his chest brushing against her bosom, as he set his lips against her ear. His velvety breath tickled.

"I would be honored to have your company this evening . . . _L__ady_ Sigyn." A pale hand came to rest on her arm.

Sigyn's hands balled the skirt of her dress, knuckles turning white. Her body, betraying its outward semblance of calmness, began to quiver. Then she spoke, her voice a mere ghost of a whisper.

"You encroach upon your prey like a venomous snake beneath a rose, waiting for an innocent babe to pluck it. I will not stay." She could feel his lips begin to form a devilish smile, and felt sick. Loki stepped back, raising his hand away from her arm.

"You may go."

Sigyn gave a short exhale and turned, leaving hurriedly but not so quickly as to indicate fleeing. Indeed, she wished very much that she could flee, disappearing forever from his frigid stare.

Loki watched her exit the hall, his face returning to a stony glower, his eyes losing their mischievous glint and turning dark. He stood pensively for a while. If one so meek as she were willing to be so openly defiant, how many more would soon follow in her footsteps? That sweet, innocent little flower, though she knew it naught, had already become a thorned rose and had pricked him. In order to guarantee his plan unjeopardized, he would have to clip her. Take her, shape her, toy with her himself. Underneath that facade of quiet fortitude, she would be fragile and delicate; it wouldn't take long for her tenacity to wither away to nothingness.

He returned to his seat, resting his forearm on the edge of the armrest and leaning back upon his throne. His lids closed and a sly smile slowly spread across his face as his thoughts drifted further inwards. Through a far window across the hall, the light of the moons of Asgard could be seen, slowly rising behind the clouds as the sun fell to the horizon. Soon, all became restlessly silent once more.

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My hope is that no one feels like throwing their computer at me after reading this. If, however, you do have some humongous issue, PM me. I also don't know if people would like more chapters, but if you have any ideas please leave a review! I'm open to hearing others' thoughts on the matter.

Thanks for reading, Darlings!

-Scarlett Kingston


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